


Black Dog

by TheCinematicRevealThatBatmanIsDead



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 04:53:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5899006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCinematicRevealThatBatmanIsDead/pseuds/TheCinematicRevealThatBatmanIsDead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Good. Shhhh...There you go. Don’t hate me,” she says, apologetic all of a sudden. <br/>“I don’t hate you,” I say without thinking. “I just...you can’t help me forever.”<br/>“Oh?”<br/>She makes me look her in the eye again. Her dress, her eyes, her hair, the wallpaper. It’s all the same damn color.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the visual novel Air Pressure, by Bentosmile. Dedicated to Emily Yi.

“I want to help you”, she pleaded.

“I know. And you’ve done your best, but...I’m beyond help.” 

“That’s not true. That is  _ not _ true.” 

“It is”, I said, rolling over to face away from her. “I can’t feel anything.”

“I can make you feel. Look at me.” She grabbed my chin and made me look her in the eye.

“I can save you.” It was not a plea, or a command, but an offer. She knelt on the bed, bent down and kissed me. “I can make you feel better.”

 

I’ve been in my room for three days straight. I unplugged the phones and the wireless router. I can’t bring myself to leave, to make contact with the world outside my apartment. I’m completely alone.

Almost.

Brandy’s promised to stay with me. She helps me wake up, get something to eat, stay warm. It’s because of her that I haven’t shut down completely. 

And therein lies the problem. She’s all that’s holding me together. I can’t get better that way. 

I look around, only moving my eyes. My apartment’s a wreck, and here I am, lying on the floor, wrapped in a blanket and still freezing cold. I see myself melting, decaying, crumbling into dust, immobile. The only thing between me and nothingness is Brandy. She runs a hand down my bare arm. Her touch sends my skin tingling.

 

It’s been a week. We’ve gotten closer, much closer, over the course of the week, but it’s never enough. She’s asleep now, resting on the wall next to me. The wallpaper is shredded. Long, ragged strips hang off, revealing the moldy wood beneath the yellow paint. I drag my fingernails across the boards, feeling paint and wood chip off beneath my fingernails. Brandy shifts, her eyes still closed, and leans against my shoulder.

She looks peaceful.

I hate her. 

 

The thought surprises me, but it’s true. I hate what she’s made me. I hate that she’s kept me alive, but just barely. I hate that even while she’s asleep, she still clings to my arm. 

I wake her up.

 

“Yeah?”, she says groggily.

“We’re done.”

Her face falls. She understands.

“Are you sure?”.

I nod, brace myself against the wall, and stand.

She rises, and clasps her hands together below her waist. Her foot taps on the ground in a quick staccato rhythm. Mine does the same. 

“I have to learn to stand on my own.”

The tapping of her foot slows gradually until it’s still. Everything is still. 

 

Then she begins to laugh. 

It climbs in volume and intensity, from a series of small breaths to a wild, bitter melody. Her shoulders shudder deliriously, her chest heaves, struggling to take in breath. She reaches out onto the bedpost to steady herself, and swings wildly on it like a door with a broken hinge.

When she stops, the laughter still hangs in the air. She’s smiling at me, a salient Cheshire grin.

“Fine then, hero. There’s the door. Go out and live your life!”, she says, looking skyward and throwing her arms out dramatically.

She hits an overhead light, and it swings, casting shadows that dance all over the apartment. It seems much smaller now. 

“How admirable. But I know you better than that, you pathetic little fuck.” 

She moves across the room toward me, her stride unbroken, flowing, until she’s inches away from my face. 

“You’re afraid. Afraid that everyone will hate you when they find out about me. So you want to run as far away from me as possible. But you’ve forgotten something.”

In a flash, she grabs my wrist, holds it in her iron grip. Her hands are cold. 

“I am the part of you that wants to live. I am a gasp of air to a drowning man. I am all you have. All you are.”

I shake my head, and she slaps me. My head is swimming. Tears are beginning to burn in the corners of my eyes. 

“I’m the glue that holds you together. Not your family, not your lithium, and, god knows, not your insatiable will to live. Me.” She lifts my forearm so I can see every mark she’s made. “You can’t live without me. Ask me how I know.”

The air has been replaced with broken glass. She continues.

“You  _ made _ me. That’s how I know.”

I break. I bury my face in her shoulder and sob like a child. I can’t feel the fabric of her dress, or the warmth of her skin. Just steel and static.

“Good. Shhhh...There you go. Don’t hate me,” she says, apologetic all of a sudden. 

“I don’t hate you,” I say without thinking. “I just...you can’t help me forever.”

“Oh?”

She makes me look her in the eye again. Her dress, her eyes, her hair, the wallpaper. It’s all the same damn color.

“You’re not going to live forever,” she says. “I’m your life-support. It’s that simple. I can’t cure you. No one can. Like you said, you’re beyond help.”

She smiles gently. The tears come again.

“What I  _ can _ do is make you feel better while you wait around to die.”

I’m melting against her touch.

“And I can even make that feel good.”

She steps forward and holds out her hand. 

“It’s your choice. I’m just letting you know that you’ll be right back where you started without me.”

 

I could tell her that I don’t want to be different anymore. I could tell her that I’m still where I started. I could tell her that every kiss makes me feel worse, that I went years without needing her, that she wasn’t a benevolent force keeping me together, she was my sickness. She was the black dog that bit at my heels every second of the day. I could tell her that I want to get better, because I do, I want it more than anything in the world. I have dreams in which some one passes me on the sidewalk and asks “How are ya?” and I say, “I’m great,” and I mean it. I want to tell her that.

Instead, I take her hand, depress the snap on the handle, and slide my thumb upwards until the blade clicks into place. The blade--Brandy--kisses me down the length of my arm. I feel it again. Cold, then warmth. Relief. Guilt. The thick carmine fluid comes rushing up to meet me. A clean cut, I note, feeling a thousand miles away. 

“See?”, she breathes, adopting a tender note in her voice. “You’re okay now. You don’t want to give this up.”

I slump back against the wall. My muscles feel like they’ve liquified. She’s right. I can’t do anything without her. 

“You’ll take care of me?” I ask her.

"Of course. I'm here for you," she says, kneeling down and embracing me. The warmth spreads through my body. I’m safe as long as I have her.

I’m like a leaf in the breeze. No control. No destination. I move physically, and only physically. And that’s okay. I’m content to ride the current. 

Brandy’s wrong about me. She doesn’t feel good, not in any substantial way. But she keeps me even. Level. As long as she’s with me, I won’t be happy, sure. 

But I won’t be sad either. 

 

When I hear myself think that, something stirs inside me. I feel it, a physical shift in my chest. A pull. A hunger.

“What’s the matter?” she asks. I rise. My knees are trembling, and I have to grip the side of the bed to steady myself, but I take another step towards the door. 

I want to be happy.

Brandy starts to laugh again, but I ignore her and she trails off. The door tries to pull away from me, but I stumble forward, grab the handle, push. “Where are you going?”

I hear the fear in her voice. A few more steps and I’m on the balcony.

I place my hands on the railing, and I can feel her gaze burning into my neck, begging me to do the right thing and jump. I reach into my pocket and pull out the box cutter. The blade gleams in the moonlight as I draw back my arm and throw it into the night.

 

At first, there’s nothing. Then, I’m overcome with a feeling of relief. I turn around, and Brandy’s crying. I am too, but for a different reason.

 

I can remember the last time I saw her. I was living in a hospital at the time, and when she came to see me her yellow dress and black sweater stood out against the bleached-white walls. We didn’t talk, at first, but after a few minutes she looked at my scars.    
“I’m keeping them,” I told her.

“Yeah?” she asked. Her voice was weak, almost raspy.

“Probably. I don’t want to forget.”

She nodded, not making eye contact.

 

The analogue clock measured out the rhythm of my heartbeat.

Brandy spoke up. “You...you did the right thing.” She forced her eyes to meet mine. 

“I’m proud of you”, she said. She even smiled, just lifting the corners of her mouth, before she evaporated into memory.

 

You have to squint to see my scars now. They’re just flesh-colored indentions, tiny runs in the fabric of my skin. I pull on my shirt and, as gently as I might close the door to a sleeping child’s room, I button my cuff. My scars are safe now. I’m safe.

 


End file.
